


elastic heart

by cathedralhearts



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 21:25:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3624789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathedralhearts/pseuds/cathedralhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s so early, G,” Sidney mumbles as he pulls himself upright as takes the coffee and the bagel. Geno laughs and goes back into the kitchen, bringing the rest into the bedroom and settling on the covers, sipping his tea and unwrapping his own food. </p><p>“Is 8.30, Sid, time for wake. Lots to do today, Mr. Prime Minister.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	elastic heart

**Author's Note:**

> Because it's taken me six years in university before I got around to writing an AU on what I study. There's probably stuff in here that you don't agree with-- take it with a pinch of salt, as this is more indulgence than anything. 
> 
> I wanted to write this as snapshots of Sid's time in power, which is stylistically sort of what this is . Sorry if that isn't your jam.
> 
> Thanks to torigates and bropunzeling for the betas and lookovers.

\--

Sidney’s slumped behind his cramped desk, suit wrinkled and creased. There’s a huge party raging in the larger office; the result of a long, drawn out year waging what resulted in a fucking _war_ for votes. Sidney should be out there, _was_ out there, but he just needed a moment to breathe. He just needs a second to himself to parse what happened to him today.

Because somehow he’s now the majority leader of the Canadian Parliament, and the new Prime Minister. Somehow he achieved the impossible, in bringing together a country that’s been battling under minority governments for years. Somehow he has achieved something twenty years before most others get the chance to.

He’s always been about exceeding expectations and overwhelming those around him to just fucking _believe_ in him or his cause. That was what he built his campaign on, it’s what he said in every speech in every town he visited across the entire country, it’s what _he_ believes in.

And now he’s Prime Minister.

There’s a low knock on the door and Sidney tugs at his tie a little further, feeling restricted. He tossed off his jacket a few hours ago-- knows there’s sweat patches under his arms and along his back. His hair is wilted, the press conference would’ve looked fucking horrible, but. It’s done. He’s running the country for the next four years, God willing.

“Come in,” he says, throat dry. He had a glass of champagne a half-hour ago but there’s been nothing but talking and interviews since, and the next week is booked solid with visits and more interviews. It’s going to be insanity. He’ll have to tell Flower to organise some special tea to bring with them on their travels.

The door opens, spilling fluorescent light into the darkened room, making Sidney wince. Apparently he’s been in here long enough for his eyes to have adjusted.

“Sid,” a heavily accented voice calls into the office. Sidney feels his mouth tug upwards into a smile, completely unbidden.

“Hey, Geno. You alright?” Because Sidney is nothing if not the perfect gentlemen at every fucking second of every fucking day. He’s not sure he knows how to turn it off anymore.

Geno snorts. “Of course. I’m bring water, plate to eat. I know you not eat yet.”

The door opens wider and Geno appears, holding a paper plate piled high with party food and two bottles of water. He grins at Sidney, and Sidney grins back.

“Oh, you didn’t have to--” he starts, but Geno shushes him with a sharp look, and Sidney falls silent, chastened. Geno puts the plate down in front of him and the bottle, grabbing the uncomfortable visitor chair and dragging it around to sit next to him.

“Give me foot,” he says. Sidney goes pink.

“Geno…” he starts, around a mouthful of tuna salad sandwich. Geno glares, again, and Sidney sighs. He toes off his horrible pinching dress shoes and gives Geno his right foot, sighing in relief as Geno digs his fingers into the arch.

Ever since he shattered his foot blocking a shot, it gives him trouble if he stands for too long like this. His hockey career with Pittsburgh was what gave him his fame, and he used it to get _here,_ because why the hell not? If he can’t stand for hockey, he can stand for Canada.

“Gone too long, need physio,” Geno says as he hits a particularly sore area and Sidney grunts. The food tastes so good though, and he’s ravenous. Geno’s managed to pick everything he loves, which shouldn’t surprise Sidney. Geno’s been good at knowing what he needs for a while now.

“I know. I’m so busy this week, but I can try and fit some in the week after,” Sidney says, his mind aching as he tries to pick a free block of time in his near future. It’s more focussed on the food, anyway. There’s cocktail sausages on matchsticks, meatballs dipped in sauce, spinach and ricotta puff triangles, and a whole manner of sweet things on the other side of his plate that he’s eyeing. Flower and Geno had organised the catering, so it’s horribly bad for him but it’s the kind of food that you celebrate with. He _deserves_ to celebrate.

“No. I’m tell Olivia to make time. We go, use Max. He best.” Geno’s got that face on, the one Sidney knows is his _don’t fuck with me_ face. Sidney wonders when he got to the point of his staff bullying him into taking care of himself-- or why he lets Geno do it so well. Best not to dedicate much time or thought to that one, for sure.

“Okay,” Sidney says, because it’s easier, swallowing and picking up a spinach puff.

He thinks back on how Geno found him, with his basset hound eyes and ridiculous mouth, fresh off a plane from an internship in Finland and determined to work for Sidney. _Only Sidney._

Geno had stood in front of the same desk they’re sitting at now, rumpled from the plane ride and wilting from jetlag, but determined to have Sidney take him on as an intern. “I’m not care what you give me, just want to work for you. Only you. Best politician, I’m believe in you.”

Sidney still remembers that blazing fire inside of Geno, the one that continues to rage today and remind Sidney why he got into politics in the first place on the particularly bad days. He remembers Geno’s passion during the interview and the impressive resume; international internships and a 4.0GPA, hockey and football as extracurriculars while juggling a job at an animal shelter off West 43rd. Geno had fought tooth and nail to secure scholarships and chose UPitt of all places (something about the Steelers-- Sidney had been just off a plane himself at the time and half-asleep as well), taking a double major in political science and something scary and mathematical.

Officially Geno’s title is Intern, but he does so much of _everything_ that it’s a crime to call him that. If Sidney’s honest, Geno is first on his list to find a proper job for once the dust settles and he can bring his people in.

They’re all excited to move into the Langevin Block on Monday, to establish their offices and look at hiring more speechwriters and strategists; Flower wants to pull kids from universities whereas Duper thinks it’s better to have established hands. Sidney wants both, but that can be for his Chiefs of Staff to argue over, however many there end up being.

“You quiet tonight,” Geno says, breaking up Sidney’s thoughts.

“Sorry,” Sidney says, moving to pick up a strawberry topped dessert. He eats it with a happy hum, punctured by Geno’s fingers continuing their ministrations. His feet probably smell so bad from walking around all day, but all he can think about is how it feels so good. He knows as soon as he goes back to his apartment, he’ll be taking the longest shower ever and passing out for as long as he can. He’s going to have to move too, fuck. 24 Sussex Drive is waiting for its newest occupant.

“No need, is good.” Geno shrugs, as if he cares, and uses his free hand to pluck a brownie off Sidney’s plate and pop it in his mouth, winking. Sidney laughs and shakes his head, picking up one for himself and eating it.

“I can’t believe we did it,” he says, draining his water bottle with a happy sigh, Geno letting go of his foot. He keeps it in Geno’s lap, wanting to feel the warmth of his thighs soaking into Sidney’s sore ankle. Geno hums and sips at his water.

“Did well. Always knew you could. Always believe.”

Sidney goes pink at the remark, it’s one thing he thinks he’ll never be able to train himself out of. “Geno, c’mon now.”

“I’m serious! You did _so_ well. Canada love you, Sid. We gonna do great things.”

He holds out his hand for a fist bump, and Sidney swallows around the lump in his throat as he lines up and bumps it.

“I hope so, G. I wanna make ‘em proud.”

“You give hell, Sid, and I’m give it right with you. We all will. Change Canada for best.”

And in that darkened room, with his sore foot in Geno’s lap and a belly full of finger food, Sidney honestly believes he can do anything.

 

* * *

 

Geno’s around his house at ten the next morning, holding a tray filled with four coffees, breakfast bagels and Timbits. Sidney gave most of his staff keys to his apartment; he’s usually good in the mornings but they keep busting in at all hours or staying over, so it seemed easier than having to get up to let them in.

Today he’s got a lunch with the leader of the opposition, he then has to make his first diplomatic trip to America to formally meet with Obama, and then there’s interviews and pressers for the rest of the day back in Ottawa.

His riding is Dartmouth-Cole Harbour, his home town, and he’s sad about having to leave it. He’s a choice of residences in Ottawa, moving between Harrington Lake and 24 Sussex Drive… not that he particularly wants to live there. It’s still undergoing upgrades and it’s easier to just live by the Lake. The house is bigger and nicer there, too.

Not that he fucking needs it. There’s no partner, no kids, no pets or anything.

“Sid, wakey wakey!” Geno carols from the kitchen, opening blinds and turning up the thermostat, humming obnoxiously.

Sidney moans into his pillow. Fuck that. He didn’t end up getting home until after midnight, having to do more interviews once he and Geno rejoined the party, and he cancelled a morning talk show appearance just so he could get a solid six hours.

Well, Flower had told him to, waggling a finger in his face and muttering about what other appearances Sidney could do to make up for the lost face time. Flower is his Director of Communications, and Sidney thinks Flower doesn’t even tell him half the shit he says no to on Sidney’s behalf, just so Sidney won’t feel guilty and beholden. Part of the joys of having staff and being the most powerful man in the country, it seems.

“No,” he says as Geno comes in and sits down heavily on the spare side of the bed. Sidney sighs and blinks, looking balefully up at him. Geno’s holding a breakfast bagel and a cup of coffee, the smell making Sidney’s stomach rumble.

“Food for belly. Coffee for head. Smile for heart,” Geno says with a cheesy grin. Sidney can’t help but laugh. Geno’s so fucking sweet sometimes. That is, when he’s not being a massive asshole, of which he is more than capable of being when he’s grumpy, hungry, or dealing with anyone from the Conservative party. His short temper and borderline socialist leanings definitely have caused Sidney a headache or two in their time together.

“It’s so early, G,” Sidney mumbles as he pulls himself upright as takes the coffee and the bagel. Geno laughs and goes back into the kitchen, bringing the rest into the bedroom and settling on the covers, sipping his tea and unwrapping his own food.

“Is 8.30, Sid, time for wake. Lots to do today, Mr. Prime Minister.”

Geno’s voice is hushed when he says it, and Sidney barely manages to swallow. People are going to call him _Prime Minister Sidney Crosby._ God, how will he ever get used to that?

“Weird,” Sidney mutters. Geno snorts.

“Is weird, but so good. You deserve, do great things. Best.”

Sidney waits for that to get old, but it never does. He thinks he can listen to Geno tell him he’s great forever.

“So, what role do you want? I need to figure out my office today,” Sidney says. Geno shrugs, all of a sudden bashful.

“Whatever role you give me is okay.”

Sidney glares. “It isn’t. You need something amazing. You’ve got a brilliant mind and you finished your studies; I need to give you something good. Something worth your time and skill.”

Geno helped out with polling data, assisted on all levels of management, is a wealth of political knowledge (probably something to do with his almost obsessive habit of checking ten different news feeds) and the ability to find things out in minutes flat. Sidney still doesn’t know what he did to deserve Geno, but he’s certainly not giving him back.

“How about Principal Secretary?” Sidney muses. Geno chokes on his bagel.

“ _Sid_ , how the fuck I’m qualify for _that?!_ ” Geno exclaims once he’s taken a few bracing sips of tea and recovered enough to talk.

“Well, Duper will probably be my Chief of Staff. Flower’s Communications, Paulie and Christina will be deputy Chiefs. Kris is my Quebec Advisor. I mean, there’s the Director of Policy but I was going to give that to Brandon.”

“I can be-- don’t know. Strategist or communications or something.” Geno’s cheeks are red. Sidney doesn’t want him to be _just_ anything, though.

“I don’t want that. I want you to be my Secretary. You’re the most senior after all those guys fill those positions.”

And it’s true-- the rest of his staff are pretty new, and mostly younger. Geno’s a year older than Sidney is, and the other guys are either older or similar ages to Sidney as well. He’s got a balanced team; he likes having depth, but he likes that they’re all part of the younger generation a lot more. He thinks that’s partly what won them the public’s votes.

“Fuck,” Geno says, his bagel forgotten and his tea held limp in his hand. Sidney wonders if he’s done something wrong. Maybe Geno’s not ready.

“I mean, if you want to be a strategist you can be. You can take whatever role you want. I just-- I just thought maybe--”

“I can do it, Sid. I’m want.” Geno says finally, shutting Sidney up.

“Really? If you don’t want to--”

“If you think I can, then I’m do.” Geno looks determined now, and Sidney feels his heart kick traitorously. He thinks Geno can do anything, and even if he fell short Sidney has a feeling he’d still be so fucking proud Geno’s even made it this far.

“Of course I think you can do it. I know you can do it. Plus, maybe Putin might be less of a dick when we meet for the UN talks in a month if you’re around.”

Geno throws his head back and laughs, because nothing gives him more joy than Putin.

“Oh, Vasha. He’s so silly.”

“He’s fucking crazy, Geno, he’s not silly.”

“Wrestle bears,” Geno’s muttering, wiping at his eye. Sidney should know better than to bring up Putin around Geno, especially in the morning.

 

* * *

 

The first week in office is insanity, and by the time seven on Friday night rolls around, Sidney’s slumped in another office in a sweat-creased suit, feeling very much like he did the week before when this position was given to him.

Geno’s all over Yelp these days, and wants to drag them to some restaurant called The Black Tomato that’s been making him laugh for the past hour. He keeps showing Sidney photos on his Blackberry of delicious looking burgers and some sort of fancy poutine. His stomach is growling just thinking about it.

“Fuck it,” he mutters, shutting his laptop and standing up. He has a security detail now; a beefy guy named James who talks _a lot_ and seems to get along with Geno a little too well for Sidney’s liking. There’s usually more guards but for escorting Sidney to and from the PM residences to Langevin Block, it’s just James.

“We’re going for dinner. Did Geno make the reservation?” he asks James, reaching for a spare shirt hanging from his rack and unbuttoning the one he’s in.

“Yeah, for 7.30. He’s about a minute away from storming in here with his iPad and showing you pictures of the boar sausage,” James says with a grin. Sidney rolls his eyes and finishes buttoning his new shirt up, shrugging on his jacket and coat. That awkward, squeezing feeling low in his midsection is just hunger, not any sort of misplaced jealous stupidity. He’s too old for that.

When he hits the corridor and walks down to find Geno, the rest of his senior staffers are in all the office, watching something.

“What’s going on?” Sidney asks. Geno looks up and waves.

“Sid! We go for--”

“Yes, dinner, Black Tomato, let’s go. I’m starving,” Sidney says.

“Wow, that was hard. Why do you say yes whenever Geno asks, and no whenever I want you to do stuff?” Flower whines. Sidney smirks.

“Because you want me to do boring stuff, and Geno doesn’t.”

“Rude,” Flower sniffs.

 

*

 

True enough, the food is amazing. Sidney gets the boar sausages and the weird poutine; Geno gets some fancy burger, Kris gets Jamabalya, and Christina and Olivia ponder over the duck confit. Sidney just snacks on bread and wonders whether his first meeting with Obama went as well as it could’ve.

“He seemed supportive of my ideas to restructure some avenues of NATO,” Sidney says, leaning back in his seat. He’s boxed in by Flower on one side and Geno on the other. Geno’s only half-paying attention, and Flower usually refuses to let him talk politics at dinner.

“You talk to him about NATO, say restructure because not Cold War, what else he gonna say?” Geno’s sipping at a massive latte, the froth leaving a white foam on his lip. Sidney has to bite down on his own and dig his fingers into his thigh to resist the urge to lean up and wipe it off. If any pictures got out, or anyone found out that his feelings toward Geno weren’t strictly professional, there’d be an uproar. There’s already been enough scandal around the PMO and Sidney really doesn’t want to add to it, especially not after he managed to wrestle the country away from Harper, ugh.

“We need to talk Twitter,” Flower butts in. Sidney groans, but for an entirely different reason.

Flower and Jen had convinced Sidney to set up an official Twitter when he decided he was going to get involved in the political race for his riding of Dartmouth-Cole Harbour. It was necessary, they said, to communicate his thoughts and policies to the youth. Sidney privately thought it was a bunch of bullshit-- there’s no way kids who were politically motivated just relied on 180 character tweets.

“The APA have given proper referencing for Tweets now, Sid! You can’t ignore it anymore!” Jen had looked far too victorious when she told him that.

So he was MP Sidney Crosby of the New Democratic Party, member for Dartmouth-Cole Harbour for two years. He was elected as leader of the NDP when Jack Layton died back in 2012, and on the back of Sidney’s hockey past and his policies, they won the national election and now he’s PM Sidney Crosby, Leader of the NDP and Canada.

His Twitter was updated accordingly with the handle, his name changed from @MPSCrosby_NDP to @PMCrosby (“You can’t have S Crosby because then it’s _PMS_!” Olivia had hooted when Flower and Jen spent an hour arguing over what to have as his new username), and while the team maintained that Sidney’s ‘Team’ tweeted on his behalf and Sidney would chime in with tweets signed with -SC, he’s never done that and never plans on it.

“Right now it looks like your lackeys run it, and it’s _weird_ ,” Jen says around a mouthful of beef tartare. Sidney privately -- and publicly -- disagrees.

“But my lackeys _do_ run it,” he says. Geno snorts around his burger.

“Yeah, well, you need to start tweeting, Sid,” Flower snaps.

“I’m too busy running a country. Just tweet and say it’s from me,” Sidney sighs. His poutine tastes amazing. He could marry this poutine quite happily. He’d much rather be thinking about the poutine than his campaign Twitter account.

“That _fraud_ , Sid,” Geno says, skilled fingers picking up a piece of cucumber and bringing it to his mouth. Sidney watches as it disappears between plush pink lips, and has to work far harder than he wants to just to get his eyes back to his plate.

“Fine, fine, I’ll say something.”

Flower hands over the Blackberry and Sidney thinks for a moment. Poutine would be a good first tweet to have, or something about the restaurant, but he doesn’t want to be flooded with fans and protestors. Instead, he leans back and takes a picture of Geno, mid hand-wave. He looks good; rumpled from a hard day’s work, his tie loose around his neck, but he’s happy and smiling, half-eaten burger in one hand and wildly gesticulating with the other. He’s passionate and excited, and he’s everything Sidney wants politics to _be_.

So he takes a photo of Geno and captions it, “PMO team after a hard 1st week. PS Malkin talking about Sens playoff chances -SC”

He hands the phone back to Flower who laughs. “He’s talking about Medvedev,” he says. Sidney shrugs. “Sens sounds better.”

“Ever the PR spinner,” Flower mutters. Sidney just goes back to his poutine and enjoys the feel of Geno and the rest of the team next to him.

 

* * *

 

“We need to talk about the pledge to the Green Climate Fund,” Brandon says when Sidney returns from a session in the House of Commons. It had turned into a slinging match, as it always does, covering everything from Aboriginal rights to the Anti-Terror Bill.

Sidney’s supposed to be on a plane in five hours to fly to Brussels for the UN General Assembly, his first since being elected. Prime Minister Abbott wants to talk to him about coal. He’d rather swallow a puck.

“Then talk,” Sidney says, taking the latest demographics portfolio from Beau and peering at it. He’s supposed to be meeting with a council of First Nations people once he gets back from Brussels, and he honestly has no idea what he’s going to tell them. “I want to give Native Canadians more rights but the House won’t let me,” sounds the kind of pathetic he’s never been able to abide.

“Andrew Ference is waiting in your office to talk about it instead,” Brandon says. Sidney stops dead.

“Ference is _here?_ Why isn’t he in Alberta?” Sidney hisses. Brandon looks cowed.

“He’s been leaving messages ever since you got voted in two weeks ago. He said he was tired of getting ignored. I couldn’t just turn him away. Besides, Olivia thinks the sun shines out his asshole so he got breezed right through. You have a fifteen-minute meeting with him.”

Brandon grabs Beau and leaves, disappearing into an office nearby. Sidney looks skyward.

“Andrew,” he says as he opens his office door. Ference looks pissed.

“$300 million isn’t enough, _Sidney,_ ” Ference says, standing up and sticking out his hand. He’s smiling, but he’s pissed. Sidney is intimately familiar with the man and his passion for recycling. He’s turned his entire office green, refitted the building with solar power, provides food for his staff-- all organic and grown from the vegetable garden he created at the back of their offices. He wants to do the same thing with Sidney.

“It’s all I can commit right now, Andrew,” Sidney sighs, sitting down.

“The budget will be restructured. Take more from defense or something. What the hell do they need more money for to build ships and missiles we’ll never use? We’re part of NATO-- it’s America’s problem.”

“And how do we sell that to the Conservatives, exactly?”

“Who gives a shit how we sell it to them?” Andrew snaps. Sidney laughs.

“Okay then. You do realise they have to _agree_ to our budget so it can pass and we can have money to spend, right?” Sidney says. Andrew waves a hand.

“You can sell ice to a Canadian, Sid. I’m sure you can see a few million less in their defense budget.”

Sidney wishes he had Andrew’s faith in him. “I seriously doubt that. How much more--”

“At least double. We need to show the world we’re committed to normative change and using our role as a middle power to influence and lead. Surely we can pressure the UK into committing more, same with the other Commonwealth countries. What’s the point in even being in this shitty club if we can’t _do_ anything about it?”

“It’s not a club, Andrew, it’s--”

“Semantics!”

“ _Alright._ Well, I need to be on a plane to Brussels. This was a good chat, I’m glad we had it.” Sidney stands up and smooths down his tie, buttoning up his jacket as he goes. There’s a knock on the door and Geno pokes his head in.

“Sid, we gotta go. Wheels up in an hour,” he says. Sidney nods and Andrew offers a hand again.

“I’m staying in Ottawa until the budget is finalised and presented to the House. I’ll meet with you again before then, Sid.”

Sidney resists the urge to groan, smiling and taking Andrew’s hand instead. “Of course, Andrew. I look forward to it.”

Geno hustles him out of there, James right behind them.

“You look like cat whose tail got step on,” Geno giggles as they pile into his car, James slipping behind the wheel. Sidney elbows him and pulls his seatbelt on.

“Andrew thinks I can just take money away from military spending and the Conservatives will just lie down and take it. It’s ridiculous.”

Geno’s scrolling through his Blackberry, and hums noncommittally. He’s in a tangerine shirt today, with a tie that matches, and a dove grey suit. It should be the biggest eyesore ever, but somehow Geno pulls it off. Sidney gave up years ago trying to figure out how Geno manages to achieve anything. “It okay, Sid. You can sell.”

“I really can’t. I can’t sell less weapons to them.”

Geno sighs but doesn’t look up from the news. “Remembrance Day, need to make sure back in time for ceremony,” he says. Sidney nods. Of course he’ll be back here for that.

 

*

 

The flight to Brussels is boring, albeit Sidney gets time to sit with Marcel and discuss his foreign policy movements and what he needs to push on.

“The Americans are going to demand more troops to fight ISIS,” Marcel says, leaning back in his chair. Sidney doesn’t want to give more troops.

“We’ve already pledged to assist how we can. The Canadian people are sick of war in the Middle East, and quite frankly so am I. Harper did a good job to pull us out of that quagmire.”

“Be that as it may, they’re going to ask and we can’t keep sidestepping the issue. Olivia told me they’re sending Jack up here.”

Sidney pulls a face.

“No, why?”

“Because they know you’ve got history with Jack, and he can probably get you to commit to more troops and diplomatic assistance.”

“We’re supposed to be reinforcing our power as a normative one, not trying to flex what little military muscle we have. My whole thing was about dialogue and multilateralism.”

“ISIS don’t give a shit about your dialogue, Sidney.” Marcel blinks, slow and even, and Sidney rubs his temples.

“What about the Syrians, or the Egyptians?”

“Syria is in the middle of their own civil wars and have their own problems with insurgents in the east. Egypt, again, still reeling from the aftermath of the Arab Spring, a failed transition into democracy… it’s all a fucking mess.”

“Maybe the BRICs can commit something. Brazil’s been chomping at the bit for years. They can use this chance to step up and show us their commitment to democratic rule by giving soldiers.”

“I don’t think it’s going to happen. As for Russia-- Putin’s not giving you shit. India might if we give them something they want in return, more bilateral trade agreements probably… and China never get involved unless there’s Chinese at risk.”

“I’m not giving the Americans more soldiers, or money. Jack can talk to me until he’s purple in the face.” Sidney reaches for his newspaper and opens it, flicking it in front of his face and ending the conversation. He so regrets letting his team find out that he was friends with their White House contact.

 

* * *

 

Sidney stands in Duper’s doorway, sleeves rolled up and feeling utterly defeated.

“We need to commit more troops to the American contingency for the fight against ISIS,” he says to the room at large. Christina and Paulie are in there with Duper, and the three of them start laughing.

“Wait, are you fucking serious?” Paulie says, glasses slipping down his nose. Sidney grimaces.

“Jack--”

“ _Ah_ ,” all three of them say at once. Sidney goes red.

“Don’t be like that! I didn’t tell him how many. We’ll send peacekeepers as part of a UN delegation. I’m not putting anyone in danger. We’ve lost enough Canadian lives for the sake of a war against terror,” Sidney says.

Duper just waves a hand. “Geno’s looking for you. Apparently you have a charity dinner tonight that he forgot to tell you about.”

Sidney wilts. Olivia told him that his calendar was free for the night, and he’d planned on Chinese food and Netflix.

“But--”

“Sid! Sid, hurry, we have to go!” Geno’s voice comes thundering down the corridor, followed with what sounds like running.

“Shit,” Sidney says.

“If you run now, you can probably get out the building before he catches up,” Christina says with a shrug. Sidney just sighs and turns to wait for Geno to skid past the door.

“Sid, have charity dinner, for babies-- _cancer_. So bad. Cannot miss, have to be there, so sorry! Forgot, I’m forgot,” Geno wheezes, red in the face and bent double.

“Alright then. I’ve got a spare suit in my room. Can you organise the car?”

Geno nods, leaning against the doorway, and watches Sidney go back into his office.

 

*

 

The charity function is nice enough, and Flower promises he can leave after an hour. The canapes won’t fill him up, and between James and Geno, he keeps from getting cornered by various lobby groups who want him to commit to something else. Sidney also jealously watches several women chat Geno up; Geno who smiles and flirts, leans close and whispers whatever he does to make them giggle up at him and bite their lips.

He probably drinks more champagne than he should.

“I could be watching House of Cards right now,” Sidney says into his flute as Geno appears, looking harried as he jabs his finger at his phone. Geno had disentangled himself from some woman dripping with jewels to take a call. Sidney was talking to investment bankers at the time, but his eyes kept drifting over to wherever Geno was. Apparently this _thing_ of his wasn’t getting any easier to ignore. It’d given him a sick sense of satisfaction when he watched Geno leave the woman, as if him leaving a beautiful lady to give Sidney some update on a world catastrophe was anything to be pleased about.

“Huh?” he asks. Sidney smiles.

“House of Cards. Season three came out yesterday, remember?” It had been a tradition of his and Geno’s to watch the show whenever they could steal an hour. Thankfully Netflix released the whole thing at once, and Sidney’s become a champion at dodging spoilers when he’s on domestic soil. He plans on watching the season as quickly as possible before the next G20 summit, because between the Swedish Prime Minister and the Nigerian foreign minister, he’ll never escape being spoiled. Those two can talk.

“Oh. Yes, we need to watch. Can escape now, I think,” Geno stage whispers. Sidney giggles into his champagne and puts the flute down on a passing waiter, and allows himself to hold Geno’s elbow as he’s ushered out.

The town car is waiting and he sighs happily as he undoes his tie after waving at the paparazzi and giving a few soundbites on the evening being a big success.

“Drop you off, get food on way,” Geno says, not looking up from his Blackberry, furiously tapping out an email to somebody. Sidney really works him far too hard-- he’s got Geno reading over briefs lately, and he’s been working with Flower and Christina and helping their teams as well. It’s all part of the Secretary’s duties to do whatever the Prime Minister directs them to do, but he still feels guilty. He’d feel worse if he didn’t know exactly how much Geno loved his new job, loved helping the Canadian people. Seemed to love helping Sidney.

Sidney shakes his head-- no point thinking stupid things like that-- and directs their driver to take them past Wu’s to pick up some wok fried lobster, lemon chicken and enough dumplings to feed an army. Geno hums happily.

When they make it back to Sidney’s, he insists Geno come upstairs and stay, completely selfishly. Geno nods and grabs a duffle from the trunk, they all keep a go bag in each car and have suits and toiletries stashed at each property and office so they can be ready wherever they are.

“I’m eat all dumplings,” Geno informs him once they get inside and Sidney shuts the door. He toes off his shoes and almost overbalances, making Sidney laugh.

“Not if I eat them all first,” Sidney says honestly. Geno pokes out his tongue and disappears into the kitchen, Sidney shrugging off his jacket and hanging it up, looping his tie and rolling up his sleeves.

He stops in the doorway and watches as Geno moves easily around the kitchen, pulling down bowls and rooting through the drawers for some chopsticks, ducking into the fridge to grab two beers and pulling a face at the fact they’re the weak Canadian piss Geno apparently hates yet drinks like its water.

It makes Sidney’s heart ache, seeing Geno in his space, humming along to some disaster of a song as deft fingers use the chopsticks to spoon their food into bowls, loading them up with dumplings and rice. It makes Sidney feel a little brave, too, braver than he should. That maybe all the stolen glances, all the wanting and desire, maybe it isn’t completely one sided. Maybe the few times Sidney’s caught Geno glancing back, maybe the fact he’s so comfortable around Sidney and his people means that maybe, just maybe, he could want Sidney back. Horrible lifestyle and nineteen-hour work days, and invasive public persona included.

“Sid?” Geno says, his voice coming from somewhere a lot closer than Sidney remembers. He zones back in to see Geno standing in front of him, almost boxing him in to the small cul de sac by the front of the kitchen. His tie is shoved into his pocket, the baby blue pressed shirt open to almost halfway down his chest, revealing soft pale skin dusted with a few dark hairs. His hair is mussed and his eyes are tired and every inch of him screams _relaxedhappycalm_.

People call Sidney brave for doing what he does, for making his way from hockey into politics and standing for what he believes in, putting his people first and being the kind of sacrificial individual who does what he says. But Sidney’s not the brave one. Sidney’s got an amazing team behind him who help him get through each day, even when he’s too scared or too tired or just too fucking jaded to continue.

Geno’s the brave one, for coming to North America in search of a better life and career, and for being there for Sidney and knowing exactly what he needs and how.

So maybe Sidney is a little bit brave, but Geno’s braver. Geno makes him want to be braver.

“G,” Sidney breathes, looking up at him, swallowing loudly in the quiet, darkened kitchen. Geno sucks his lip in and sighs.

“Sid, you need to tell me what you want,” Geno whispers. Sidney reaches out slowly, agonisingly so, and curls his fingers around Geno’s elbow, the pads of his fingers resting against the delicate inner skin of his elbow.

“I want you to stay, Geno.” Sidney cannot bring himself to say any more, and watches as Geno’s eyes drop from Sidney’s face to where Sidney’s holding him.

“I’m always stay, Sid, promise.”

“No, Geno, I-- stay the night. Stay with _me_.”

Geno looks back up, his mouth working. “Sid, you… really? Now?”

Sidney nods, his heart beating a million miles in his chest, like it’s going to thump out his body and throw itself at Geno’s feet. He can’t remember ever being this nervous. Ever wanting something as badly as this, not since he became Prime Minister. Even then, it’s a different want. A completely different beast.

“Really, now. For a long time now.”

The smile that bursts across Geno’s face makes Sidney laugh, a staccato giggle that ends with a honk, the kind of laugh Sidney’s tried to train himself out of for years. He was never able to commit, just based on how happy it always seemed to make Geno.

“Oh, Sid.” Geno moves in closer, wrapping long fingers around Sidney’s waist, pulling him in. “Me too, just-- was unsure, you my boss, but you so smart and kind and beautiful. I’m want you always,” Geno breathes, dropping a kiss on Sidney’s temple. He presses his face against Geno’s chest and lets himself be held, the feelings threatening to overwhelm him completely.

“I really like you, Geno. I’m sorry if it’s not convenient but I d--” Sidney says, pulling back to look up at him. Geno swoops in before he can finish, crushing their mouths together and holding Sidney so tightly against him. Sidney moans and holds on, wrapping his arms around Geno’s neck and pulling him in, kissing him until their mouths are slick and Sidney’s pressed against the wall, grinding down on Geno’s thigh.

“Should eat,” Geno grunts as he pulls back to suck a kiss on Sidney’s jaw.

“I want you more than I want fucking dumplings,” Sidney gasps out, making Geno laugh and pull back.

“C’mon, Sid, need to eat. We kiss after, promise.”

Sidney pouts. “We’d better do more than just kiss, God. I’ve waited long enough,” he demands, taking the bowl from Geno and allowing himself to be nudged into the lounge room.

“So bossy,” Geno sighs and flops down on the couch, shoving a dumpling in his mouth and reaching for the controller. Sidney has no qualms about dropping down next to Geno, so close their thighs are pressed together, and settles in as Geno finds the first episode of the new season and queues it up.

“I’m glad you’re okay with this, G. It’s not very professional and it’s gonna be hard, but…” Sidney trails off. Geno shrugs and pulls Sidney closer, an arm around his shoulder.

“What I care? Have no privacy for years. At least now I get you in my bed,” he winks, laughing as Sidney almost chokes on his lobster.

 

* * *

 

The newly appointed Russian Ambassador comes to meet Sidney on a dreary Thursday afternoon to discuss the progress with pro-Russian separatists in Ukraine.

Most of Sidney’s meetings have been cancelled for the afternoon, the entire team expecting this meeting to take forever, and Sidney’s looking over his calendar for the next few days, trying to carve out a moment or two to take Geno out on a date.

It’s been a long few weeks since they got together, only able to steal two nights together; the rest of their time has been spent apart, or crashing so hard at night to wake up ridiculously early for summits and press conferences the following morning.

“Ah, Sidney Crosby,” says a heavily accented voice. He looks up to see Alexander Ovechkin, and chokes on the sandwich he’s eating.

“ _Ovi?_ ”

“Surprise, is me! I’m politician now, too!”

Jesus.

 

*

 

Sidney takes him to Hy’s Steakhouse, Geno insisting on coming with them. Apparently he and Geno know each other from their juniors days back in Russia-- Geno’s own hockey career ending with a whimper, one he’s gotten over and moved on from.

Ovi orders something complicated, while Geno and Sidney stick with steak and prime ribs. Sidney makes sure he gets vegetables with his, and eyes James hovering in the corner. He really regrets having to have a bodyguard sometimes, making him more conspicuous. It means he can’t sit any closer to Geno than he is, although Geno tangles their legs together and rubs his ankle against Sidney’s, making him blush and look down at his plate.

Ovi regards them with a beady eye.

“So, how you doing, Sidney Crosby? Liking politics more than hockey?”

“It’s not comparable,” Sidney says, smoothing his hand out along his napkin. He and Geno are on one side of the booth and Ovi’s on the other, spread out and smirking. He’s going grey around the temples, and his suit looks as sleazy as they always did. At least some things never change. He’s still as charismatic as ever.

“You replace me with not as good Russian, I’m offended.” Ovi puts a hand on his chest and laughs. Geno spits something at him and Sidney rolls his eyes, nudging at Geno’s shoulder.

“Don’t be stupid.”

The meal itself is nice, Geno tweeting a picture of the three of them as part of his campaign to be the best at every aspect of every part of Sidney’s team, and then Ovi’s programming his number into Sidney’s phone and demanding they meet up more often.

“Pro-Russian separatists, Ovi. You guys need to stop supplying them with weapons,” Sidney says on the way back to his offices. Ovi waves a hand.

“We stop, long times ago. I’m come here for good food, to see you, meet Zhenya. Is not business, is pleasure.”

Sidney frowns. “I’m serious. There’s still people dying, and the Australians are still pissed about what happened--”

“Is fine, we fix with Australians. Abbott fucking idiot anyway, don’t matter.”

“It does matter, because if he starts complaining to Obama and the other Commonwealth countries, it makes things difficult.”

Ovi shrugs and waves his Blackberry around. “Abbott busy with Indonesia and getting kicked out his own country, he fine. This is my stop,” Ovi says as the car pulls up to the Hyatt.

“Nice seeing you again Sid. We meet again next time I’m around. Take care of him, Zhenya,” Ovi says with a wink and disappears. Geno glares until the door shuts.

“He still annoying,” Geno grumps. Sidney just laughs and reaches for his hand.

“C’mon, I bet we can lock ourselves in my office for a half-hour and christen the new couch that the Estonian foreign minister gave me,” Sidney says with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

Geno leans forward and knocks on the partition glass.

“Drive fast, big hurry!” he yells, making Sidney burst into laughter and tug him back.

 

* * *

 

Somehow, it’s Christmas Eve and Sidney’s at a party he was convinced to throw for his staffers and their family, still wondering exactly how he ended up here.

He stands outside in the snow, looking up at the sky and taking a moment to himself, needing a quick break from the madness and the people, all the eggnog and turkey and warmth inside. He likes taking a step back to reassess things, to just centre himself so he can move forward with a clear head and a full heart.

Geno comes outside a few minutes later, holding two cups of hot chocolate. He presses one into Sidney’s hand and kisses the side of his head. Sidney takes a sip and moans-- Geno’s put peppermint syrup in it, and God knows what else, but it tastes unearthly.

“Oh my god, this is so good,” he says. Geno laughs.

“Mama’s recipe. Russian secret, I’m kill you if tell you,” he says. Sidney can deal with that.

“As long as you keep making me this forever, I don’t care, I’ll be dead,” Sidney says before he can stop himself. Geno looks surprised, and Sidney flushes.

“Ah, I mean…”

“Forever? Forever is long time, Sid. Sure you want that? I’m pretty big deal,” Geno says slowly. Sidney laughs and coughs, looking down at the snow covered ground. He digs his toe into it, dragging it through until he can see the dirt and dead grass underneath.

“Forever is a long time, yeah. But ah… I guess I’m pretty sure about you, G.”

Geno’s silent, regarding him with an expression Sidney’s not used to, unreadable. It makes his stomach squeeze up, and he feels like he’s going to shake apart from the nerves. “Say something.”

Geno swallows, moving his cup from one hand to the other. He’s still close to Sidney, still close enough for Sidney to be able to reach out and touch. “That sure?”

Sidney nods. “Always. Ever since I interviewed you and you started working for me. You’re so smart, and funny, and I just-- I always felt like I was a better person, and a better politician, when you’re around. You make me better.”

Geno’s face crumples a little. “Oh, Sid.”

“I know it’s bad, because I’m the Prime Minister and you’re my-- my Secretary, but I just. I couldn’t not tell you anymore. I needed to tell you. I need you to know exactly how much I-- how much I love you. It’s not just sex, or comfort, or any of that. It’s so much more.”

Geno puts his cup down on the nearby bench and reels Sidney in to kiss him, cool, chapped lips pressing hard against Sidney’s. Sidney opens his mouth and lets Geno in, and they kiss in the snow like that. Fuck it being in public, the soft noise of the party behind them, lights twinkling perfectly in the distance as the snow starts to fall around them.

Everything feels perfectly aligned.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say [hey](http://cathedralhearts.tumblr.com/%22), because I like new friends.


End file.
